Creator
by The Lovely Cynic
Summary: Gokudera had always had a vague idea that God didn’t exist. //8059, YamaGoku.//


**Creator**

**Author's Notes: **The first thing I write in awhile worthy of me posting on here. XD The rest of it is on my LJ, if anyone is interested. (Most of it is, er, KHR smut. Oh KHR, how you eat my brain.) Well... enjoy!

---

"Fuck you."

The echo sounded like it was mocking him—throwing back what he had just said in a sick reminder of what had happened, of his failures and ieverything/i he had ever done wrong in his miserable little life. The words slapped him in the face, his own voice making him wince in the otherwise deathly silent half-darkness. Gokudera grit his teeth and clenched his fingers around the wooden top of the pew in front of him.

"Fuck you! Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!" he shouted. He didn't know what else to say. He didn't know what else to _do_ other than shout and scream and destroy things. It's all he's been doing for _over ten years_, so why the hell should he stop now?

He fell to his knees, hitting the cold, hard church floor. The moon hung low in the sky, filling the building with an eerie, silvery, colour-tinged light through the stained glass. Candles burned dimly off to the sides, flickering over old statues and plaques and paintings of holy symbols. They cast demonic, distorted shadows over the so-called righteous symbols in an ironic contradiction of 'the Light of God' and the world's omnipresent darkness.

There was no God tonight. There was no fucking _God_.

Gokudera had always had a vague idea that God didn't exist. Ever since he was a child and forced to church services, to sit through dull, preachy sermons about living your life as God commanded or burning for the rest eternity. He remembered thinking as a child, "What kind of Creator would shun His children like that forever after making mistakes in one, short lifetime?" He never really believed in God, and yet had never truly dismissed the idea altogether.

But now....

Now he knew. He knew that if some supposedly merciful, loving, all-knowing being actually fucking iexisted/i, he wouldn't have decided to fuck with Gokudera's life for the past ten years. He wouldn't have flicked his all-powerful wrist to make it a sudden, living Hell, making him endure trial after trial after trial to see how much it took until he broke.

Well, He got His wish.

The Tenth was dead.

The Tenth was _dead_.

The fact hadn't sunken in. It was still a fresh wound, deep enough to throw one into shock and numb the entirety of the human body. He took in a deep breath, lungs expanding and burning with the effort to just breathe. What was he without the Tenth? Without a boss like Tsunayoshi Sawada to serve as a right-hand man to, what the _fuck_ was he?

It was like he had lost his entire identity in a flurry of spattered blood.

He ground his teeth together, feeling his throat tighten and the constricting, suffocating force on his chest. He couldn't do anything to save his boss.... What kind of right-hand man was he? Of all the years he served the Vongola Tenth, he couldn't _save_ him.... A sense of worthlessness and self-loathing—something he hadn't felt in a long fucking time—wormed its way through his bloodstream, feeling like venom scorching his veins.

"Tenth..." he whispered to the empty walls. "I'm sorry."

Nobody answered. The only replies were the scratching of tree branches against the windows and his own shuddering breaths. There were no signs of divinity left in the building. It was as if his own numbness and distrust of all things church related sucked every ounce of belief out of the space.

He could almost see the statue of Mary crying.

God was probably up on His fucking throne, laughing His ubiquitous ass off. Gokudera, the man who had been hurt too many times to count and had never once shown any sign of wounding, was on his knees and ready to give up everything. He had felt insignificant before, but never like this. He felt like an insect on a car window, clinging for dear life lest the windshield wipers come and smear him into a bloody mess.

The Bastard Upstairs was probably holding his finger over the switch, ready to strike at any minute.

"You should really stop this."

Gokudera raised his head weakly. He tried to collect himself enough to be able to say something back to the fucking _baseball idiot_ standing in front of the heavy, wooden door. He wasn't smiling, though. The silver haired man didn't think that any of the Vongola had even cracked a smile or let a giggle slip since the Tenth's death....

He couldn't help feel disappointed. Yamamoto—the stupid moron whose smile had aged too much the past ten years—was always the one person who could brighten up the darkest of situations by breaking out into a trademark grin or with the smallest of laughs.

Not that Gokudera would ever admit it out loud....

"What do you want?" the silver head let out in a clipped hiss. He wanted to be left alone if all Yamamoto had to say was that 'he had to stop.' He didn't ihave/i to stop. It was his way of letting off steam—even if yelling profanities in churches and silently cursing that bastard God wasn't exactly the healthiest of stress relievers.

The swordsman smiled the smallest, bitterest of smiles. "It's late. I figured you were hungry. Now that we're back in Japan, I figured we could go to the market or—"

"Or you could leave me alone."

Yamamoto shut his mouth, staring at Gokudera with a look that reminded him of a kicked puppy. His amber eyes flicked down to the floor, corners of his mouth tugged down into disappointed frown. The silver-haired man felt a twinge of guilt pluck at his chest like harp strings. Fucking baseball idiot....

"Ah... sorry." The brunet nodded shortly and gave Gokudera one more look, laced with concern before spinning around and walking back out into the night.

But the fucking iguilt/i was still there. Gokudera, drowning in his own grief and self-pity, was feeling guilty over something he did all the time. But... this time was somehow different. Yamamoto didn't laugh it off as usual; didn't take the brush off with a smile and a shrug with the intention of asking again later. He just... left. Had it _really_ been that important to him?

Gokudera man suddenly cursed himself for turning so sentimental. He couldn't believe he actually felt iguilty/i for blowing the idiot off. But, then again... maybe a little food and... company would take his mind off of his life and the control he had over it slowly slipping through his fingers.

"Oi, moron! Wait up!"

---

The market was busy. Even the late hours of evening, it was swarmed with people, flocking to food stands like ants to a sugar cube. Normally, Gokudera would have immediately shunned the idea of sitting down in the middle of the chaotic horde of bodies, but today was different. He was _looking_ for a distraction to pull his mind away the Tenth and God and life in general.

With all the voices speaking, yelling and calling out in hurried, messy Japanese was enough to cloud his head from anything else. For a moment, he was almost glad that Yamamoto seemed to _understand_ his distress and misery.

Probably because he was feeling it, too.

That realization seemed to hit Gokudera like a stampede of elephants. The realization that _yes_, Yamamoto did feel things other than what his idiot face showed—that he hurt and hated and felt sadness, that he had _feelings_. It was a weird thought, really. Gokudera had always thought of the swordsman as a vapid airhead, but... once you saw the look in his eyes after a kill, or after the Tenth's death... looking back on it, the silver-haired man had never seen more pain flash over someone's face before cutting it jaggedly with a half-assed smile.

He stared down at his food, appetite somehow gone.

"Hey, Gokudera," Yamamoto hummed, a thick udon noodle hanging out of the corner of his mouth, "aren't you hungry? You were practically stuffing your face a couple minutes ago." He grinned, smile not quite reaching his eyes. It brushed against the bottom, adding some semblance of his old light to his amber irises. It wasn't like it used to be, though. It was a poor imitation of his old smile, a mere shadow of the cheerful brightness it once held.

Maybe, Gokudera thought, this was another way God was trying to fuck with him. Making Yamamoto an assassin was by far the iworst/i mistake that Bastard has ever made. The guy didn't have the heart for the job. Gokudera could see it slowly eating away at his sanity, the thought that he'd actually ikilled/i someone gnawing away at him for days afterward.

Not that he cared what the stupid freak was feeling. It was just annoying to have to see that childishly _terrified_ look cross over his face every so often.

"You shouldn't smile if you don't mean it, moron," Gokudera mumbled, staring down into his bowl of chicken and rice.

Yamamoto opened his mouth to say something, brow knit together in confusion, when a single droplet hit him directly on the nose.

Rain.

Just fucking perfect.

"I didn't bring an umbrella," he deadpanned, wincing as a cold drop fell onto his cheek.

And the idiot had the audacity to laugh. He threw some bills down onto the table and stood up quickly. "Neither did I. But I guess that means we should hurry back to headquarters." He smiled wider, glancing around as the people in the market opened up black umbrellas or shrieked to hide under awnings as the clouds seemed to just _open the fuck up_ and pour down buckets of water.

"Fuck!" Gokudera cursed, scrambling off of his seat and fucking _booking it_ out of there.

---

Twenty minutes of blind running, shouting and cursing later, and they were lost, soaked and under an awning on some deserted little street outside of some deserted little store with only a streetlamp as any form of light.

"God fucking damn it!" Gokudera snarled, turning his face towards the cloth serving as their only protection from the torrential downpour. "This... is absolutely the worst day," he breathed out in a hiss, falling into a crouch. His jacket was feeling heavy from all the water, his hair was dripping, his legs hurt from running so fast, the street was fucking _creepy_, they were lost and he was stuck with the baseball freak.

It could _not_ get any worse.

Yamamoto sighed heavily and joined Gokudera on the ground, shaking out his wet hair. "Why's that?" He smiled that stupid smile and leaned his head against the wall.

The silver head shot him the nastiest glare he could manage. "Because..." he started, suddenly losing his voice. It wasn't just the rain. It wasn't just the _now_ that made it so awful. It was... "Everything," he blurted out. "Everything isn't going right. The Tenth is dead and nobody knows what they're supposed to be doing anymore. It's like we're running around _blind_, trying to scrape up what we have left of a family," he sighed heavily, a feeling of dread washing over him. "What if... what if the family ends up splitting up completely?!" he snapped. The thought alone was terrifying enough. But saying out loud suddenly made it a real possibility. He sprung to his feet and grit his teeth hard enough for his jaw to hurt. "What the fuck are we without the Tenth?! We aren't anything! I've never had a really family before now and with the Tenth gone...."

It was overwhelming. It was as if every fear and uncertainty from his childhood and present surfaced all at once and he had _no fucking clue what to do_.

He was too busy shaking—from cold or something else, he wasn't sure—and clenching his eyes shut to will away any more emotional outbursts to notice a pair of soaking wet arms wrapping around his shoulders.

"Gokudera," Yamamoto whispered, "it's okay to be upset, you know. About Tsuna's death and... it's okay to be scared sometimes," he sighed. He pulled back and took both sides of Gokudera's face into his hands, staring him directly in the eyes. "The family's survived ten years. Even without Tsuna, I... I think we'll find a way to survive."

Gokudera froze under that gaze. There was some raw, unmasked emotion in Yamamoto's eyes, something that he rarely showed anymore. Back when they were teenagers, that was all that was there—pure, unfiltered feelings. You could read Yamamoto like a book by just staring him in the eye. But as time moved on and his body count went higher and higher, that filter built up into something opaque until his eyes showed nothing at all.

But with that that small flash, it was as if years and layers of that mask had been suddenly wiped away. It was unnerving enough to freeze Gokudera in his tracks.

"I wouldn't leave you." His smile had a softer edge than normal.... "The family's important to me, too, you know."

"I wasn't worried about _you_ leaving," Gokudera retorted almost automatically, voice faded into a quiet grumble.

"I know," Yamamoto laughed. And with that, he leaned forward a little more and closed the space between them.

It was as if they had both been waiting for it. They kissed like they had been doing this for years, like they already knew ever dip and curve of the others mouth and lips, like they had both been wanting it for _so goddamn long_ that they had lost count.

It started off as a gentle caressing of lips against lips, turning to exploration with tongues and teeth and more lips before morphing into something desperate and unyielding. They both wanted it—_needed_ it—so badly that their entire bodies ached to feel every inch of the other.

Kisses grew more intense; passionate. Teeth clacked together—biting, nipping, nibbling and tongues reached for anything they could get. Hands pulled off sopping wet clothes in a desperate attempt for skin sliding against skin and that delicious _friction_, goosebumps pricking up and jerking sharp gasps out of lungs until Yamamoto had Gokudera pressed—naked—against a wall and he was pressing inside.

It hurt, oh _God_ it hurt, but Gokudera didn't care. Pain was grounding; it held him firmly down to Earth so his thoughts couldn't drift to unpleasant places and all he could think of was the carnal urge to either jerk away or buck down against the dark-haired man.

"_Takeshi_," he breathed, hands threading into that dark, dark hair.

He felt Yamamoto shudder and tense at the same time, as if he was trying to decide to shove in all at once or pause.

"Please...."

He knew the idiot would take the hint. And _fuck_ did he. The growl that tore out of Yamamoto's throat was probably one of the sexiest noises that Gokudera had ever heard in his life. He moved slowly, hands sliding over Gokudera's sides down his thighs, feeling every inch of skin he could reach. The silver-haired man felt the pain ebb away into friction and pleasure and oh _God_ it felt so fucking good....

He cling to Yamamoto for dear life, nails leaving half-moon marks in his shoulders. His head tilted back to lean against the wall as the idiot moved in and out, keeping the steady, slow pace that Gokudera wanted to speed up, but... the feeling of the swordsman's hands all over his, jerking him off, gripping his hips, spreading his legs wider... it was enough.

He came with a choked cry, eyes squeezing shut and teeth clenched together.

Yamamoto came with a breathy gasp of Gokudera's name against his collarbone.

Neither of them dared to move for a good minute afterward. But, of course, it was Yamamoto to speak first. "Let's get cleaned up," he murmured, and held Gokudera tight against himself and out into the rain.

Maybe, Gokudera thought silently as the cool drops drenched and cleansed his heated skin, I should let God take it from here.

And for once, he felt the tranquility that the rain was supposed to possess.


End file.
